


Endure

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Aftercare, Age Difference, Apprenticeship, Asphyxiation, Badwrong, Bondage, Choking, Clothing Kink, Coming Untouched, Conditioning, Consent Issues, Cross-Generation Relationship, D/s, DILFs, Daddy Kink, Desperation, Desperation Play, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Edging, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Gloves, Handcuffs, Intense, Kneeling, Latex, M/M, Magic, Magic Lessons, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Medical Kink, Mentor/Protégé, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn, Porn Battle, Porn Battle XV, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Sacrifice, Self-Control, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Magic, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Subdrop, Submission, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teaching, Touch-Starved, Training, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Underage Character(s), Veterinary Clinic, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deaton trains Stiles to come untouched. But it's for a good cause!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Porn Battle](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/539426.html), and for this prompt in particular: "Alan Deaton/Stiles Stilinski, fire, ritual, sacrifice, safety, spark." I've endeavored to use all the words in the prompt.

* * *

 

"Focus," Master Deaton says, quietly, his hand on Stiles's nape, tracing the lines of the rune. They sizzle briefly against Stiles's skin, and Stiles flinches. " _Focus_."

"You try focusing with a boner that's lasted for two hours," Stiles mutters, then groans in complaint when Deaton's hand leaves him. "Oh, hell, no. Put that back on me."

"No."

" _Please_."

"We've been weaning you off touch for weeks. You should be capable of doing this on your own, by now."

"Just - just touch me _somewhere_ , I can't - "

"You can." Deaton crouches in front of him to meet his gaze, because Stiles is kneeling on the ground with knees that ache like bone-deep bruises, and Stiles's wrists are cuffed behind him, because apparently he can't be trusted not to touch himself. "Remember. Your pleasure is a sacrifice. If it is received by another - or even yourself - it loses its power. It must be given up on its own."

"If I'd known using my goddamn spark was about coming untouched, I wouldn't have apprenticed myself to you," Stiles grumbles.

"And then, you'd be a useless emissary to your pack," Deaton says, calm and implacable. None of Stiles's sass ever pisses him off, which pisses _Stiles_ off, because all he thinks of, these days, is how to make Deaton mad at him, how to make Deaton rough him up a little, hurt him, do anything as long as it involves Deaton's fingers on him or, fuck, _in_ him, crooking inwards relentlessly, dragging orgasm after orgasm from him, until he's limp and spent.

"This shit is twisting me up, man." Stiles squirms as his dick gives a sweet pulse, because imagining Deaton touching him - anyhow, anywhere - is working for him. "I never wanted - wanted the things this is making me want..."

"And you won't have to want them, once you're accustomed to it." Deaton's tone remains cool, unmoved, and that's -

That's downright cruel. "Maybe you could dirty-talk me," Stiles suggests, desperately. "Do it that way."

"No," Deaton denies him again, because he's the worst tease in the history of the world, the meanest bastard, meaner than the many villains of Beacon Hills. "That won't fool the magic. It'll still count as you coming _for_ me, and you can't come for anyone, at all."

That's total bullshit, because at this point, Stiles has developed such a Pavlovian response to Deaton's proximity that he can't fathom coming for someone _other_ than Deaton. Someone other than his master. "Wh-what about - about my fantasies? Can I - "

"You can," Deaton sighs, "if you need to. The first few times. But eventually, you'll have to manage without them."

"The order just gets taller and taller, doesn't it?"

Deaton regards him steadily. "It's only a matter of repetition. Of training. You'll learn. Your body will instinctively recall what to do."

Right. And somehow, Stiles will be able to come untouched on demand. Like some kinda porn star.

"Focus," Deaton repeats, and Stiles steels himself.

Focus, huh? He can focus.

On _Deaton_. Deaton, who's in his lab coat with a pen in his pocket, like this is just business, like Stiles is an errant animal to be brought to heel.

Stiles keeps looking into Deaton's eyes, lets himself picture them darkening with lust. He feels himself starting to pant, his cock getting wetter at the tip when the picture changes to one of Deaton bending him over an examination table and fucking him, hard and fast, sweat beading along Deaton's face and catching on his stubble, Deaton's fist clenching in Stiles's hair and pulling his head back, far enough that Stiles's throat almost closes up, far enough that it's difficult to _breathe_ _-_

And Stiles _isn't_ breathing, gasp following gasp as his hips buck helplessly into the empty air, and he moans in frustration, in something very like pain. He wishes Deaton would just choke him already, with those white latex gloves on his hands, neat veterinarian hands, soothing hands, a _master's_ hands.

Except that they'll be doing the opposite of soothing, and Stiles will love it, will love every broken, jagged second of it, especially when that latex shifts to wrap around his dick, too dry to begin with but growing slicker with each stroke, milking Stiles in a steady, punishing rhythm that refuses to speed up.

Stiles coughs out a laugh that segues into a whine, because even the Deaton in his _mind_ is an asshole. Stiles's erection is heavy and swollen between his legs, twitching and leaking and dribbling, and there's a pool of pre-come on the floor beneath it, obscene and surreal. Stiles flashes upon the thought of how he must look to Deaton, on his knees, his thighs spread on either side of his red, curving cock, bobbing with every aborted movement of Stiles's muscles, with every shudder that wracks his limbs.

And yet, Deaton doesn't reach for him, doesn't show any pity, watching Stiles with the patient attention he usually reserves for _pets_ , and it's -

It's unbearable. Stiles can smell himself, sex and musk and salt, the scent thickening till he gags on it and pretends he's gagging on Deaton's dick, instead, swallowing around the fullness and the _weight_ of it, god, he wants -

But he can't have, and the hollowness of it is a starvation, a fire that saws in and out of his lungs in lieu of oxygen, that flushes him like a fever, a poison that boils within him and seeps from his cock in hot drop after drop, searing as molten wax.

He's grinding his teeth so viciously that his jaw locks, and he's thrusting into nothing, pointless as it is, the futile wrenching of his wrists scraping them raw against their binding, but that rawness is precious to him, because it's an additional sensation that drives him higher, higher until -

He comes, spasming, shooting with such force that the semen _slaps_ onto the floorboards, audible and loud, and Stiles's spine arches as he spurts again, and again, and again. It seems to go on forever, a blackness eating away at the edges of his vision, and when it's finally over, he slumps forward like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Deaton catches him, shushes him, and the meaningless buzz of his voice gradually forms into distinct words. Deaton's telling him what a good boy he is, that he's done it, he's actually done it.

Stiles returns to a state of groggy, hazy awareness, and realizes it. 

The cuffs around his wrists have snapped - impossibly, amazingly - and the metal lies burnt and smoking behind him, reduced to scrap. The ritual succeeded. Despite the odds, Stiles managed to release his magic in a concentrated burst. At last.

Deaton holds him as Stiles sags even further, as Stiles begins to weep with sheer, numbing relief. The comfort Stiles was yearning for these past couple of weeks is suddenly there, in Deaton's closeness, in his warmth, and it's too much. Stiles brings weak, trembling hands up to cling to Deaton's coat, and allows himself to cry into Deaton's shoulder, getting all that pristine fabric damp with tears and snot. But Deaton doesn't withdraw; he just rocks Stiles as if he were a child, murmuring softly into Stiles's ears.

"You did well," Deaton says, and he sounds so _proud_ that it makes Stiles hitch another sob. "You did so well, Stiles. It'll be easier, next time. I promise."

The mere idea of 'next time' is terrifying, and perhaps Deaton understands that, because he praises Stiles even more, lulls him into that drugging sense of safety, of everything being fine, of the ordeal having ended.

When Deaton helps him stand, agony lances through Stiles's straightening knees, hobbling him, and he clutches at Deaton for balance.

"Can I s-stay here?" Stiles asks, waveringly. "Tonight?"

"Of course," Deaton answers, because they both know Stiles's dad is on the night-shift, and won't be home. He guides Stiles toward the small room adjacent to Deaton's clinic, the one with a spare mattress in it, but that's not what Stiles meant.

"W-with you," Stiles says. "Can I sleep with you?"

Deaton goes still. For a moment, his grip on Stiles tightens, then relaxes. "Just this once," he says, and Stiles is pathetically grateful for that kindness, because he has to be with his master, today. He just _has_ to be.

He's led upstairs, into Deaton's apartment, and when they enter the bedroom, Deaton lowers Stiles carefully onto the bed.

Stiles melts into it bonelessly, exhausted beyond belief, as if his very soul is tired. Deaton tucks him in and sits beside him, leaning against a propped-up pillow, his palm resting gently on Stiles's sodden hair.

It occurs to Stiles to complain that Deaton isn't lying down _with_ him, but the urge is vague and is soon lost under the fog of sleep. A lingering feeling of that palm remains, however, sheltering him in his dreams.

 

* * *

**fin.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
